


If and When

by ollipop



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: F/F, Getting to Know Each Other, POV Second Person, Power Imbalance, Protectiveness, Trust, dubcon like whoa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-06
Updated: 2013-08-06
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:32:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ollipop/pseuds/ollipop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bujold ficathon prompt: "For a long time, Drou was the only person Kareen could trust."</p>
            </blockquote>





	If and When

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha) in the [Bujold_Ficathon_2013](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2013) collection. 



> Please note that the story contains brief references to Serg and to spousal abuse. For Philomytha's prompt in the Bujold Ficathon 2013.

You’re sitting exactly where your husband left you; when the two of you were finished, he’d escorted you back to your chambers in the most courtly way, folded you into your favorite stuffed chair, and tucked a blanket solicitously around your legs before bowing himself out. You’ve only moved far enough to pull the blanket up around your hips; you’re afraid that you’re bleeding into the chair, and you’d rather discard it before asking the Palace staff once again to remove mysterious bloodstains. 

However, it was a mistake to rest here so long. You’ve stiffened up, and suddenly worried that you won’t be able to move yourself into bed, much less clean yourself up or maintain some semblance of propriety. Reluctantly, you ring the bell to bring in help, sending them for the new Inner Chamber girl. There’s a button that would bring her directly, but you’re afraid to push it; in the event that you would need that button, you would be as likely as not to be killed by the time she arrives. It’s best to keep things casual, tonight.

She’s a new girl, one of Negri’s. He always chooses smart ones—often, they are smart and bored when they arrive, and within weeks they are appalled at what they find, and then they are righteously angry, and then they disappear. _Where_ they disappear to probably depends on whether they went to Negri or to your husband to vent their anger. You don’t ask.

This one is taller, more of a fighter. She still couldn’t defend you from your husband, but she might be foolish enough to try. You search for her name, come up with nothing but a blank croak. Never mind. “I think I might need some help into bed.”

She drops a perfect curtsy. “Of course, milady.” But she stands stock still in front of you, useless. Try again.

“Come over here, please, and let me put my weight on you.” _That_ command makes more sense to her. In a moment, she’s at your side, and placing your feet on the floor one by one before getting her shoulder under yours. You haul yourself upright, and you’ll be fine now that you’ve got momentum, but then the girl’s supporting arm moves upwards to brace your ribs and you can’t keep yourself from hissing in pain. The blanket falls; your hip wound doesn’t even have that much blood seeping from it, but you’ve given yourself away. You’ll never make it to bed in peace now. 

“Milady,” the girl gasps. “I didn’t realize you were injured. I’ll fetch the physician, just as soon as we get you settled.” Her eyes were nervous but her voice remained steady, professional. You can always trust Negri’s girls. 

“No, no, that won’t be necessary,” you tell her, resigned. Alerting the Palace staff will only bring you more trouble; you’ll be scolded, they’ll be removed, and then you’ll just have to break in another set of help. You meet the girl’s gaze, trying to look trustworthy, trying to look like a woman who’s still in control of her mind. “I’ll be just fine, Miss… Droushnakovi, I just need to rest and perhaps a bandage.” You pause. “I’m sure you’ve been trained for this sort of thing.” 

Comprehension falls over the girl’s face slowly. She goes quiet, pulls you two more steps towards the bed. “Yes, milady. I’ve had some first aid training, I’m sure we can manage between the two of us.” 

You don’t protest when she pulls off your bolero and raises the hem of your blouse. She looks clinically at the marks on your skin—just some abrasions, but a darkening patch underneath. You’re more worried about getting the cut bandaged, but the girl is methodical about checking your injuries.

She reaches a hand to your chest, and looks up at you for permission first. You nod, but instead of tracing the scrapes on your left, she presses one hand down on the center of your chest, and suddenly your right side feels like it’s been lit on fire. By the time you’re back in your head, she’s pulling your blouse back down. 

“Well, the rib’s broken. You’ll need a firm corset for a few weeks,” she says regretfully. 

The hip wound is more straightforward; the cut is shallow, crescent shaped, just designed to set the mood. It’s not as if your husband wanted to hurt you. The girl tapes it quietly, and returns to her post without further comment. 

+++

You’ve gotten too accustomed to Miss Droushnakovi’s first aid efforts; she’s no longer surprised when she comes to help you to bed, and indeed has put her ear to the ground with Palace staff so that you rarely need to call someone to call her. Tonight when she enters, you are able to tell her at a glance where you’re hurt—not much physical injury this week, for a mercy—and she pulls you up sure-footedly, steers you to bed without making you soothe her fear. 

She doesn’t hesitate anymore as she eases down your skirt, strips you of your blouse, and runs her hands over your skin. But her hands are different than anyone else’s; she’s touching your skin as if you were something valuable. She’s not punishing, directing, scolding, or pleading. She’s still evaluating, as her eyes run down your body, as her hands fold back your limbs and check along their length. But in that assessment, she’s looking for what she can do for your body, to repair you and make you whole. You’ve not received this type of honest concern since you were a child.

She’s lifted you before, carried you bodily across the room when necessary. You’re used to comparing yourself to the person next to you in bed, subtracting your strength from theirs to calculate how much speed or force you’ll need in order to escape. You don’t want to escape this woman, though; you suddenly want to run your hands over that strength, add it to yours, and own it. 

It’s that spirit of possession that moves you to reach out and skim your hand down the curve of her waist, along the swell of her hip. She jumps as if she’s been shocked.

“I’m sorry,” you tell her. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, I’m tired, I…” you falter. You don’t have anything to say that isn’t about you. 

Her breath starts to slow. “It’s all right,” she says indulgently. She reaches down and cups one hand to your face, her thumb smoothing your forehead, then one long finger curling under to bring your chin back up. “You just startled me. Quite all right, milady.” She reaches down to pull your hand back up to her knee as she finishes her ministrations, but it’s maternal. 

She shows up two nights later, though your husband in another district and you’re mostly recovered. 

“Did you need help into bed, milady?” she asks, bland as ever.

You’re startled. “Actually, I’m…” You stop to consider her. “I’m sure that would be a good idea.”

She nods, hands you into bed as usual, pulls off your bolero and blouse, but this time she sits before you patiently, awaiting instructions. She’s quite a bit taller than you, even seated on the bed; she’s broader, and definitely stronger. You wouldn’t normally be able to shift her, but you get the impression that you’d be able to catch her by surprise just now. One of your hands reaches out to pluck at her skirt. It’s a feint; by the time she notices you leaning towards her, you’re only inches away from her skin. 

First, you kiss the top of her cheek, testing her response, ready to back off if she objects. Instead, she cocks her head and looks at you curiously. She smells of soap and linen, and you rub your nose down her cheek to follow the scent.

It’s not until your lips touch hers that her hands begin to move. Just then, you realize how tender she’s always been with you up until this point; her fingers are still searching your skin, but there’s nothing clinical about it this time. One hand falls heavily onto your hip, anchoring you. The other drags upward to catch your breast as she brings her nose down to nuzzle the line of your collarbone. 

You hang on to the soft skin of her shoulder with one hand, the other skimming lightly across her breast before circling the lines of hard muscle around her waist. She breaks the kiss to lean forward into the embrace, but she’s becoming more tentative. After a moment, she pulls away and looks at you with that same wary look that she’s used to examine your bruises. You’ve raised gooseflesh across the skin on her forearms.

“Am I all right?” you ask her, holding yourself back pointedly. 

She peers at you, unsure. “Yes, milady?” Her hands move back to her sides, but she’s leaning in, drawn towards the curve of your throat. “Yes, I think you’re quite all right.” Her lips touch yours one more time, softly, and this time as she pulls away you chase her, one hand up to the nape of her neck, the other drawn over the corded belt anchoring her skirt. You push back the fabric of her blouse and feel how the belt has dug in slightly along her hipbone, stretched across the strong muscle of her flanks and marking that glorious skin. At the small of her back, tucked into the folds of her skirt, you’re startled to find a dagger in a rough leather sheath. The hilt’s been warmed by her skin but it’s still hard and unfamiliar beneath your fingers. As you unsnap the sheath to set it aside, she tenses and her eyes dart around the room. 

“No, milady. I can’t lose track of that,” Miss Droushnakovi says. She seems to have plans to keep the thing on, but you’ll be damned if you agree to lay down with anyone else who brings a knife to bed. 

“On the table?” you suggest. She looks around the room again, searching for anyplace else that’s within reach without being a threat. Finally she unfolds herself and begins walking the perimeter of the suite, blouse untucked and skirt slung low across her hips. Her right hand casually rests on the hilt of the dagger, now exposed and glinting softly in the light from the reading lamp. She’s stood that way in front of you a hundred times, but you’d never considered what she was curling her fingers around. 

Miss Droushnakovi completes her inspection and stops to murmur into the comm link by the desk. She’s getting a situation report from the Palace Guard, and as she listens her eyes are once more reviewing your suite, your bed, your body. Finally, she meets your gaze and her face begins to warm. You watch her close the comm and remove the dagger and sheath from her belt, placing them carefully in the desk drawer and out of sight. She pulls the belt from her skirt, and as you hear the clink of the buckle you feel another jolt of alarm at the sound. The belt is laid in the desk as well, quietly, along with two barbed hairpins. 

Then she’s approaching you with palms open, smiling warmly, no more sharp edges. You rise to meet her at the edge of the bed, reaching out to pull her blouse over her head in one smooth motion, trapping her wrists momentarily behind her and burying your face in the curve under her jaw. You’ve lost the element of surprise, but when she’s stripped of her weapons the two of you are equally matched.

+++

You’re spread out in bed with her a few days later, wrapped only in a sheet. She hasn’t ever fallen asleep in your presence, but she’s lying drowsily between you and the door, looking content. Her dagger and pins are resting on the bedside table. Your husband comes home tomorrow.

You ask, “What do your friends call you?” 

She raises her head from where it’s pillowed on her arm and smiles fondly at you. “Everyone just calls me Drou.”

“Drou.” It sounds so impersonal. You’ve struggled to name her, in your head, almost as much as you’ve struggled to name this thing that’s happened between you. _Miss Droushnakovi_ sounds far too formal, but she has yet to ask you to call her anything else. “Your first name is Ludmilla, is that right? Does anyone call you Millie?”

She pulls a face and buries her head back into the curve of her arm. “Not since I was five.”

“I see. Do you think I may call you Drou?” It’s awkward, absolutely the wrong thing to ask. You’ve still got the taste of her in the back of your throat, and you’re asking permission to stop calling her “Miss”. You clamp your mouth shut firmly before the next thought comes out— _it’s all right if you say no._

“Certainly, milady.”

“I don’t want to be anyone’s lady.” A pause. “Do you think you could call me Kareen?”

“Yes milady, I think I could.” Now she might even be teasing you a little. 

“Try again, Drou.”

She reaches out and brushes one thumb over your cheek. “Yes, Kareen.”


End file.
